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What Dreams May Come

A dream I had on 10/2/12. This one’s really disturbing, with lots of offensive content (including content that was offensive to ME during and after the dream). Read at your own caution.

…

Last night, I dreamt that I was a beautiful, young, gay man. I had just moved into a new house in Seattle, I think, or Portland, and I kept noticing weird things happening. Like, my reflection in the mirror was a little… off; it kept moving differently than I.

I go to two different coffee shops, both of which have all kinds of sweet things (scones, muffins, etc.), but neither of which have any sort of savory, non-sugary food. One of them has a cooler FULL of delicious-looking faux-meat products and fresh vegetables (apparently I’m still vegetarian, even when I’m someone else entirely), but they’re only for sale to take home; the surly barista (slash owner?) won’t cook anything for me there, and my microwave isn’t unpacked yet.

Later, I try a Thai restaurant with a whole bunch of friends. Jon Roop is there, and Olivia [his fiancee] makes an appearance. Olivia hates her meal, and she got the same thing I did; it was indeed not very good. Maren is a very good sport about her meal, which is also not great.

Somewhere along the way (or maybe my waking brain is combining things for the sake of a narrative), I met a gorgeous hunk, and we hit it off. (Remember, I’m a blonde, young-Christopher-Reeve-esque dude in this story.)

We skipped a few steps, and wind up back at my place, where I eventually convince him that I LIKE like him, that I’m not just looking for a one-night-stand, and that he should stay and cuddle with me. (Chastely.) (He looks kinda like a taller, thinner version of Nelsan Ellis [Lafayette from True Blood], and he has a bit of Lafayette’s wariness about ‘the kindness of strangers.’) He finally agrees, and we put on our PJ’s and crawl into bed.

I whisper something to my new beau about how nice it is to have met someone my first day in my new city, and he mumbles something sleepily back. Then I tell him, “You should hang yourself.”

Yeah.

My ‘astral’ self keeps watching as my physical body falls asleep, and the guy gets out of bed, as if sleepwalking, and leaves the room. He comes back with a rope, somehow loops it over the door frame, and does as I suggested. Spirit-me can’t do anything, and I’m getting groggy … I eventually get pulled back into my body and sleep through the night.

When I wake up, I see him hanging there. Before I can totally register what’s happening, I see myself in the mirror. My reflection, shifting between my face and the woman from the night before, tells me that it’ll always be like this. Being gay is a sin, and she (the woman) is here to save me from myself; this will happen to anyone I love until I ‘convert.’

I call the cops, and, in the dream, I can see them in the precinct. They’re all sitting around, basically making a show of doing nothing – paper airplanes, the whole bit. The head… guy… (Chief or something?) kinda waves me off, “Yeah, boyfriend murdered. Got it.” When I insist that a terrible crime has been committed and that I need help, he screams at me, face reddening and veins bulging, “We’re very busy, here! We’ll get to it if we have time!”

I curl up in a ball in the hallway, sobbing. I’m again watching this character-me instead of inhabiting him, and feeling an overwhelming sadness and desire to take care of him, but not feeling the loss of a lover directly, as he is.

Then the ghost-woman steps out (of the shadows, almost) and I’m behind male-me’s eyes again. She says something like, “This is how it’s going to be. I’m going to rehabilitate you. I’m going to save you and bring you to Christ.” A woman walks in wearing a beige business suit (clipboard, hair in a bun, the whole nine), and the ghost introduces us, saying that (for some reason I wanna call her April) “April” is here to help.

April (who seems like she might be some sort of demon or not-totally-human person herself) unbuttons her blouse and pulls her very-fake, very-large breasts out over her jacket. In addition to a bra, her breasts are coated in some sort of rubbery-plasticky stuff… like a thin wetsuit material, but flesh-colored. She grabs my hands and puts them on her breasts, encouraging me in a not-at-all encouraging monotone to fondle them. This is part of my conversion therapy, apparently.

Getting no joy from the practice, but terrified of displeasing the ghost, I comply, trying to make noises of affirmation that I think will make the ghost believe her system is working. Finally, I’m allowed to stop, and “April” packs away her breasts with all the feeling and efficiency of a lawyer shuffling papers into a briefcase. She leaves, and I’m left with the ghost for company.

I can feel her anger and hatred radiating out of her. She can, apparently, take some sort of corporeal form herself, but she usually glares at me from mirrors. Sometimes she takes over my face and has me talk to me in my own voice, Gollum-style.

The gist of her mad ramblings is that she’s a Christian, and she has tasked herself with eradicating homosexuality, even after her death. She feels she can’t leave this world for the kingdom of Heaven until she’s performed her goal… and she gets angrier every day about being kept from eternal bliss.

And that’s where the dream left off. My dream-character sitting on the floor in agony, being berated by a demon-Christian.

Quite a bit of social commentary for a dream. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich so soon before bed.